


Hermit

by chalcopyrite



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Sick!Frank, mentions of animal harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:40:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalcopyrite/pseuds/chalcopyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is a hermit living off the land. One day he finds a feverish, delirious man wandering his property.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hermit

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://yobrothatssick.livejournal.com/profile)[**yobrothatssick**](http://yobrothatssick.livejournal.com/)

Ray — doesn't like people. Or, he doesn't like being _near_ them, which is why he lives way out where there are a good few miles in all directions between him and any neighbours. If anyone wants to get up in his business, they have to come looking for him, and most of them know better than to try that. So he's not best pleased when he takes a moment to look around while he's running his traplines, and sees someone, a stranger, maybe a few hundred yards away.

"Hey!" he yells, but the stranger doesn't look around. Probably doesn't hear — sound gets swallowed up in the open spaces. So Ray picks up his stuff — two jackrabbits, a few traps he was going to try along the creek bed — and steams off on an intercept course. He's working on what he's going to say to this person, this _idiot_ who's out here not knowing the ground and not knowing where he is — clearly — and who doesn't have any respect for a person's desire for solitude, winding up with a nice forceful suggestion that this person should get him- or herself out of Ray's space, back to the civilization they're clearly better suited for from the way they can't even walk in a straight line, and stay there henceforth.

He's got it all lined up and ready to fire, almost in certain earshot without even yelling hard, when the stranger stops, sways, then falls over in the deep grass.

Ray stops and boggles for a second, still focused on sharpening his words, but then his brain catches up and he hurries over. The person — woman? Short and small-boned, but no, when Ray turns him over he's definitely a guy, even if he's got a pretty face — is limp, and looks right out of it, but his eyes flutter open when Ray taps at his cheek. "Hey, you there?"

"Din' mean to…" the man slurs. "Gotta — gotta go…"

Ray frowns. "What's your name?"

"Name, ha. Frankly my dear.." He trails off again. "Y'r hair…" His arm twitches like he wants to reach up, but before it can get there — before it can do more than wiggle a little — he's out cold again.

Ray sighs. He doesn't much like being around people, but some things you can't not do. So much for his solitude.

  
At least the guy — whatever his name is, and Ray's hoping he wakes up enough to get, maybe, contact info some time soon — is light to carry, because that's what Ray ends up doing, all the way back to the cabin. He doesn't want to leave the guy alone to go figure out some better option, and besides, he's not sure what that would be. A car or truck would get him back to the house faster, but Ray would have to go borrow one, and that would mean explanations, and the closest house is Masterson's a few miles away, and things haven't been easy since two years ago, when there was that disagreement about boundaries, and — no. The guy's not that heavy, even if he stays deadweight all the way back.

Ray uses his dangling legs to push the door open, and backs up into it to shut it. There's only one room — Ray had bigger plans once upon a time, but he rethought them when he found out how much work building a house really is — so he just hauls the stranger the last few feet to the bed and lays him down. On _Ray's_ bed, and yeah, he really hopes the guy wakes up soon. He checks his pulse, which is fine, but touching him like this brings home that it's not just the exertion that made Ray feel hot — the man's burning up with a fever. Ray isn't sure how to take the man's temperature without any co-operation, but just feeling his forehead — well, no wonder he wasn't all that coherent.

Ray examines the man's shoes — thin soles, not meant for tramping around in the middle of nowhere, and dirty like he didn't start walking close by — and takes them off while he's trying to think of what he should do next. He knows a little first aid, but that he mostly learned through trial and error on himself, plus having a good supply of bandages and antibacterial gel, and when he gets a cold, he pretty much just holes up and waits for it to go away. He's never had to deal with something like this — not that he's even sure what "this" _is_. When he gets sick, he just does what seems like a good idea at the time.

His mom used to say something about feed a cold and starve a fever — or was it the other way around? Ray can't remember, so he compromises by wrapping the guy in a blanket while he goes to find something cold. He comes back with something icy in a plastic bag in a towel (he thinks it might be peas, but he can't even see it under the frost, so now it's a cold-pack) and a glass of water. He's not sure about getting the guy to swallow when he's unconscious, so he starts with the towel full of ice, holding it against the man's forehead and then, brainwave, whacking some of the chunks loose and wrapping them in another towel that he leaves on the guy's stomach, crossing his arms over it. Maybe he can take a little heat away that way, too. He pulls the blanket back over the man for good measure.

Through all of this, the stranger mutters some, and twitches a little every so often, but he doesn't wake up. Ray doesn't know if that's a good sign or a bad one, but figures that he probably needs the rest. When he's done all that he can, for now, he stands next to the bed and looks at the stranger.

Surely he's got somewhere else he ought to be? Now that he's lying in Ray's bed. Rays gotta wonder if bringing him in was a good idea. He can't have gotten to where Ray found him by accident, and just because he's got pretty cheekbones and long eyelashes doesn't mean he's automatically not trouble, or a criminal or something. He's got a bunch of tattoos on his arms where they show under his shirt, and Ray thinks he can see more dark smudges on his torso through the cloth. Who knows where he got those. And again, there's the whole thing where he was somewhere he shouldn't have been. Ray's not so worried anymore about the legalities of trespassing, but he is really wondering how the man got there.

He sounds like he's trying to breathe through a wet sponge, and from the state he was in when Ray spotted him — Ray doesn't know how he got that far, as far as his shoes say he's come. Ray rubs at his chin and decides that okay, it's not the most ethical of options, but given that the guy is unconscious and who knows how long he'll stay that way, there are some things Ray needs to know.

He pulls the blanket away and goes looking for the man's wallet. He finds it in the second pocket he checks (right front, not rear), a ratty thing that looks like it's made entirely out of duct tape. He flips it open; there's a driver's license in the little see-through window, and it says this guy is Frank Iero, resident in New Jersey, and that it expired five months ago. The bill fold holds a twenty and a ten and some singles, there's an ATM card that's still valid — and that's it. No Blockbuster card, no random receipts, no loose change and junk that Ray remembers always used to collect in his pockets. He checks the rest of Frank's pockets (and hey, maybe he wasn't just quoting _Gone with the Wind_ at Ray before), but all he turns up is a rock, like all the other rocks out there, and a nickel.

That was enlightening. Ray puts all of it down on the locker next to the bed, after he shoves some of his own stuff aside to make a space, and pulls the blanket back up over Frank's shoulders — he's shivering and clutching the cold pack closer, talk about mixed messages. Ray figures there's nothing more he can do right now, and he still has to deal with the rabbits, so he goes and does that, and heats up supper, and eats it, and the whole time, Frank doesn't do more than mutter occasionally. Ray gets him to drink another couple glasses of water by dint of propping him up and pouring it down his throat, and then he gets a spare blanket out of the chest and lays it out on the floor. He's starting to regret bringing Frank home now. Shoulda called Masterson, even if they're not on the best terms, and let Frank be carted off to hospital. Surely they wouldn't have needed that much from Ray. "I saw him, he fell over, no idea why," would do it, right?

Ray sighs and tries to bunch the blanket up under his head so he can at least pretend he's got a pillow.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, suddenly alert for no reason he can put his finger on. Then he hears the noise again, a low gasp, and that must have been it. He sits up and rubs at his eyes to try and see Frank in what starlight makes it through the small window.

Frank's tossing and turning, and his hands are twitching like they'd be flying if he wasn't asleep. Ray grabs his shoulder, intending to shake him awake enough to get out of whatever he's dreaming — it's clearly not pleasant. He shakes once, and realises that the shirt under his hand is clammy and damp. The fever must have broken, because everything Frank's wearing is soaked through and reeks of sick sweat.

Frank's quieted down, but Ray can't leave him the way he is; he'll just get a chill all over again. Yawning, he shoves himself to his feet and goes to get water. The big bucket near the stove is tepid, so he pours some of it into a smaller pot and tosses some wood onto the glowing embers, feeding it larger pieces until the fire's crackling again. When the water feels about the same temperature as his hand, Ray takes the bucket over to the bed, fetches a few rags and a towel from the closet, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Frank? Frank, you in there?" He pats at Frank's shoulder. "Come on, we gotta get you cleaned up."

"Don' wanna," Frank mutters.

"Sure you do. It'll feel better afterwards."

"Don' wanna."

It seems like that's all the answer Ray's going to get, so he ignores any comments Frank might have made and pulls him up to a more-or-less sitting position, leaning against Ray's shoulder. He gets Frank's shirt off, dips a rag and squeezes it out, and sets about wiping down his chest and arms and back. He steadfastly ignores the grain of Frank's skin under his hands as he moves him around (and he can do that, he can just pick him up and move him, he's that small and that pliable, right now), and the shapes of his tattoos (there are more, lots more, under the shirt, but he's not looking at ay of them) and concentrates instead on getting the sticky sweat off him, leaving him damp, but clean, in a way that Ray can only hope will feel better and lead to him actually being _coherent_ at some point. He dries him off as best he can when he can't really use much pressure or Frank will fall over. He takes Frank's socks off — nasty — and wipes his feet down too, then dumps the water down the sink and the socks outside the door.

Once he's clean, Frank looks better. Maybe it's just Ray's eye, but he looks more like he's just asleep and not unconscious. Ray shuffles him into a clean shirt that's huge on him, wraps him up in a clean sheet, and puts him into the bed properly, under the blankets. Hopefully he'll sleep through until morning now — not that it's not morning already, but until it's actually light out would be nice. Ray's blanket on the floor looks less appealing by the second, but there's not enough room on the bed for him and Frank without getting pretty cosy — not that Ray is opposed to such, as such, just that he thinks they should maybe be properly introduced before they start cuddling, and okay, really, if he's going to cuddle (or anything else), he'd like to be sure that first, Frank is also down with that plan, and second, that he knows damn well who he's cuddling with.

So he tells himself to get over it, the floor's not that bad (no rocks. No snakes. See, could be worse), and wraps himself back up again. He's expecting to lie awake for a while, but instead he's out almost as soon as he's horizontal again. Floor's pretty comfy.

Frank is still asleep when he wakes up the second time. He's curled up on his side with his face relaxed and looking almost sweet in the morning light. His breathing's easier, even if it still sounds wet, and while he's got circles under his eyes, his cheeks don't have that hectic flush they did before. Ray watches him for a few minutes, then catches himself trying to follow the rhythm of Frank's breathing and backs off. He hauls himself off the floor — and ow, ow, he used to be able to do that without a bunch of complaining from every joint and muscle from the neck down, _ow_ — and shuffles over to get the stove going again and figure out what's for breakfast.

Okay, really he's just trying to postpone the moment when he has to go out and fight the chickens for eggs. No one ever mentions this about chickens — they look all feathery and nice in pictures, but they're beady-eyed, vindictive little tiny dinosaurs, and Ray has the scars to prove it. Or maybe it's just his chickens: they're the third-or-so generation of survivors out here, where nice, feathery, slow birds get eaten by wolves or bears or Ray doesn't even know. Whatever the reason is, he has evil feral chickens. And he's just lucky they haven't figured out how to hide the eggs, or he'd never get breakfast.

He goes and chases the chickens out of their hut (after the cabin, it was easy), gets the eggs without bleeding anywhere, and juggles them all back inside without dropping any. At this point in the morning, he's willing to call it a win. The bacon cooks first, then the eggs scrambled in the leftover grease, and he splits it up onto two plates. If Frank can eat, it'll probably do him good.

He goes over to shake Frank's shoulder, and gets a mumble and an attempt to hide in the blanket. He shakes again, this time saying Frank's name, and gets a sleepy blink and then a smile. The smile matches the eyelashes: way too pretty to be in Ray's bed.

"You were there before. I remember your hair," Frank says, and sits halfway up. "Wait, where am I?" He coughs a few times, curling over to one side, then looks back at Ray expectantly.

"My place," Ray says. He sounds rusty and he has to clear his throat; he's not used to talking out loud. "I'm Ray."

"Ray," Frank repeats, looking around. "Nice."

It's not clear whether he's talking about Ray, the cabin, Ray bringing him to the cabin or what, so Ray lets it go. "There's breakfast, if you want food," he says.

"I guess—" Frank starts, and gets cut off by his own stomach growling. "Uh. Breakfast sounds good." He starts to sit the rest of the way up, but twisting around brings on another bout of coughing, and Ray stops him.

"Stay there. Uh — here." He props Frank up on both pillows, sort of folded up and mashed against the wall so he's held almost upright — enough to eat, anyway. He brings over a plate, and a fork, and settles himself at the small table with the other plate. He looks over to see how Frank's getting on, and he's already halfway through his pile of eggs. The bacon's been pushed to the edge of his plate, though.

"Bacon not all right?" Ray asks.

Frank fiddles with his fork. "No, it's fine, I just — don't really eat meat. Do you want it? I haven't touched it."

Ray decides to skip telling Frank what the eggs were cooked with, and just leans over to scoop up the bacon. "Thanks," he says "Um, you want some water or anything?"

Frank leans back against the pillows. "I don't suppose you have aspirin or anything, do you?"

"Sort of. Just a minute." Ray takes a last bite of bacon and stands up. There's a jar on the back of the shelf with strips of dried willowbark in it; he pulls a few out and drops them into a pot, adding water and setting it on the front of the stove to boil (he hopes). He should have guessed Frank would be hurting; if he'd really been thinking, he could have given him some last night and helped to bring down the fever. Too late now. "That needs a little time, but it should be ready pretty soon."

When he turns around again, Frank's looking at him with an expression Ray can't quite quantify. "You're a real Davy Crockett, huh?"

He doesn't sound exactly like he's mocking, but Ray bristles anyway. "I like living out here, and you learn to get by," he says.

"No, no, it's cool," Frank says, holding out the hand not holding his plate. "Just — I'm lucky you found me, huh?"

Ray shrugs uncomfortably and goes back to breakfast. "There are other people out here," he says. He doesn't mention that the closest is more than five miles away, and he's not sure Frank would have made it in the state he was in yesterday.

"Still. You found me," Frank says. "Uh, I htink I'm just gonna lie down for a little, okay?" He leans over slowly and puts his plate on the floor. "Thanks for breakfast."

"No problem," Ray says. He finishes off all his bacon and Franks, and checks the pot with the willowbark. It's almost done, he thinks, but probably not all the way. He lets it simmer while he goes out to bring in more wood and washes off the plates, then takes it off the stove and fishes the bits of bark out. By the time it's cooled enough to drink fast, Frank's asleep again.

Ray holds the cup in one hand and shakes him with the other. "Frank."

Frank blinks awake. He looks like he used up all his energy on eating, and now he's back to being muzzy and sick. "Huh?"

"Here." Ray hands him the willowbark infusion, and adds, "Drink it fast."

Frank eyes it uncertainly, but he shuffles up enough to drink without spilling it all over or choking. He takes Ray's advice and downs the whole cupful at once, then makes a horrible face. "That's gross."

"Yeah," Ray says, because it is — it's bitter, and it makes your tongue want to curl up and die — but it will also, he hopes, help Frank feel better.

Frank scoots back down into the covers. "If you're done assaulting me with tea, I'm going to go back to sleep, now," he says.

"Okay." Ray takes the cup away and pulls the blanket higher over Frank's shoulder.

"Thanks," Frank mumbles, and then seems to make good on his promise of going back to sleep.

Ray keeps himself busy — there's plenty to do, always is — but he finds himself sticking around the cabin and doing inside jobs more than he might if Frank wasn't in his bed. He has to go out and check his trap lines, but when he finds nothing in them, he's not too disappointed. He doesn't even bother moving anything to what might be a better spot, just goes back to the cabin.

He has stew bubbling on the back of the stove before he remembers right, Frank doesn't eat meat, and rabbit probably counts as meat. Frank needs to eat, though — he looked a lot better this morning, but he's been asleep every time Ray's checked on him, which means he's not well yet. Ray casts around for ideas, and his eye falls on the potatoes he was planning on putting into the stew in a bit. If he boils them separately, Frank can have those. Potatoes have vitamin C, right? That's good for colds and stuff.

Just like this morning, Frank wakes up long enough to eat and swallow more willowbark tea (making faces the whole time), but then goes right back to sleep. He wakes up in the middle of the night again, this time with a deep, hacking cough that sounds like something's tearing loose in his lungs as he doubles over, trying to catch his breath. Ray catches him before he pitches right onto the floor, and holds him there, feeling like Frank's going to shake right apart under his hands.

Frank holds together, though, his thin shoulders stronger than they feel. The coughing doesn't really let up, though, just goes away a little before coming back. Ray gets a bucket, and Frank coughs up sticky phlegm that he spits out. He stays sitting up, and Ray holds him upright and rubs his back when the spasms keep Frank from drawing a breath, and neither of them sleep the rest of the night.

When it's over, they're both exhausted, and Frank looks like he's been beaten up, but his breathing sounds right for the first time since Ray picked him up. He leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes like he can't take any more. Ray stays awake long enough to take care of the evil chickens and the pig, then comes back inside and collapses into bed.

He doesn't wake up for hours; when he opens his eyes again, the light says it's some time around noon. He still feels hammered, but less so than he did this morning. He sits up and stretches a little; he's stiff, but feeling better for the sleep.

"Hey." Frank's eyes are open and he's watching Ray.

"You're awake." Ray's not surprised, exactly, but he's not used to a conscious Frank.

"Yeah." It looks like Frank goes to nod, then thinks better of it. "Different, huh?"

"How are you feeling?"

Frank shrugs against the pillow. "Been better. Been worse. Better than I was, though, so thanks."

Ray nods awkwardly and gets up. "You hungry?" Now that he thinks about it, he sure is.

"I could eat."

It's easier to get the eggs when the chickens aren't there defending them. Maybe Ray should try that in future. He cuts up the leftover boiled potatoes and fries them with the eggs, and the result doesn't look pretty, but it tastes fine.

"Is there a shower or something hiding around here anywhere?" Frank's finished already, and is sitting up on the side of the bed, feet on the floor and everything. "I feel gross, and I probably reek, right?"

He does, a little, but it's not like Ray bothers being a bundle of roses himself. He scoops up the last of his fried egg and points. "There's a bucket."

"Seriously?" Frank looks over, and yeah, of course it's a bucket. "Wait, how come you have electricity, but you don't have indoor plumbing?"

"Plumbing's more complicated." Besides, Ray does have indoor plumbing — sort of. He got tired of having to haul water in the winter, so he put an electric pump in a couple of years ago. He fills the bucket from the faucet over the sink to demonstrate, and puts it on the stove to heat up.

Frank watches him. "You an interesting man, you know that? How'd you end up in the middle of nowhere?"

Ray shrugs. "Long, boring story." He collects the plates and stacks them in the sink. "How come you were out there wandering around on your own?"

Frank huffs out a breath. "I had a dumbass idea about hitchiking, and I got dumped out by an asshole who kept my bag."

"Seriously?" See, this is why Ray doesn't like people. "They just left you?"

"It wasn't the middle of nowhere — uh, quite. It was sorta near a town — Delancey, I think?"

That's at least fifteen miles away by road. "You walked from there?"

"Actually, I was trying to walk _to_ there, but I tried to make a shortcut and got turned around." Frank shrugs. "My sense of direction's kind of fucked at the best of times, you know?"

"So you just kept going?" Ray can't believe how lucky this guy is. Something else occurs to him. "Is there someone you should call, make sure they know you're okay? I don't have a phone, but, um…" Well, if Frank flutters his eyelashes at Mrs. Masterson, she'll probably let him use the phone, as long as her husband doesn't see Ray.

"Probably, eventually, but no one's expecting me to check in or anything." Frank coughs and Ray tenses, but he stops again, rubbing at his chest with one hand. "Do you think this is warm enough yet?" He dips a hand into the bucket and makes a face. "Close enough."

He strips his shirt — Ray's shirt — off, and Ray pays a lot of attention to getting every bit of egg and grease off the dishes. He's not going to look over to see how Frank's tattoos curve over his skin, lines and shading that makes Ray want to follow it and see where it goes.

"Ah! Fuck, that's colder than I thought." Frank does a little dance on the spot, but he doesn't stop scrubbing himself down. He drops the cloth back into the bucket — the water can't be more than barely warm, and Ray can' believe he's that keen on being clean — and unbuttons his pants, then slides his eyes sideways to Ray. "Um—"

"I'll be — outside," Ray says, hastily stacking the forks by the sink and turning away before Frank can see his reaction to seeing him shirtless and wet and taking his pants off. "I should —" He's not sure what it is he should, but before he has to come up with an end to the sentence, there's a pop from the fuseboard by the door and the few electric things in the cabin shut off. "Deal with that." He shakes his hands off and makes a hasty escape.

It turns out that something's nibbled through some of the insulation in the wiring leading from the small windmill Ray built out back, and there's corrosion in the inverter, and Ray has to very carefully disconnect a bunch of things and spend most of the afternoon repairing connections. Frank doesn't come ask what he's doing, and Ray's grateful for that. He doesn't have space to think too much while he's making sure everything's right and not going to burn down his house; it can't last forever, though, and he's replacing the blown fuse inside before it gets all the way dark.

Frank's sitting up on the bed, with a couple of Ray's few books next to him. He must have gone hunting for clothes — he's wearing another of Ray's shirts, and a pair of sweatpants that are going to look ridiculous as soon as he stands up, over a pair of huge woolly socks. Ray's just glad he's dressed again, it makes it easier to talk to him.

"Everything all right?" he asks.

"Should be." Ray finishes screwing the last piece in and the freezer hums back to life. "There we go."

"You're good at fixing things." Ray can feel Frank's eyes on his back.

"Yeah, well." Ray fiddles around with his toolbox, lining things up by size and fishing out a few stray pieces of stripped insulation. "I used to be an accountant."

"Yeah?"

"I hated it."

"So you decided to go pioneering?"

"Don't — it wasn't like that." It wasn't an impulse, or it was, but it was one Ray thought through. "Just — the more I looked around, the less I could think of that was a reason to stay where I was."

"That's sad," Frank says. When Ray glances over at him, he looks sincere, not mocking. "I mean, there wasn't anything you liked? Anyone?"

"No." Ray concentrates on winding up the spare wire, using a lot more concentration than the job deserves. "It was just me, and I hated my job, and it seemed like every day the walls were just getting higher and closer." He shrugs awkwardly. "I needed to get away from it."

"So you came somewhere there's nothing but elbow room, yeah, that makes sense." Frank nods to himself. "But, I mean, you could have lived nearer a town — like Delancey or whatever it's called. You didn't need to drink all the kool-aid."

"I spent a lot of time around people I didn't like, before." Ray finishes everything he can possibly pretend to do with the toolbox and closes it up. "I decided I didn't want to have to deal with them anymore."

"I get you. Look, I'm sorry I landed on you like I did, and I'm glad you kept me from, like, dying out there, that would have sucked." Frank rubs a hand over his neck. "I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can."

"No, it's okay," Ray's surprised to hear himself say. "You're all right."

"Really?" Frank sounds surprised, but covers it up with a smirk. "If you say things like that, you're gonna have a hard time getting rid of me."

Ray just nods his head and stashes his toolbox back in its spot. He can think of worse things.

  
"Hey, look, you don't have to sleep down there." Frank's looking at Ray's blanket spread out on the floor. "I mean, I get if you don't want to risk getting my germs, but I can move these blankets down and you can have the bed—"

"Stay where you are." Ray sounds gruffer than he means to, really, but he doesn't want Frank getting sick again, and sleeping on the floor sounds like the fastest way to do that. "It's not so bad, I'm fine."

Frank makes a face, but he gives in pretty easily, which just confirms Ray's suspicion that he's not feeling as well as he'd like to pretend he is. The other thing that backs him up is the way Frank is asleep almost immediately once he's tucked himself in; his quiet snuffling snores aren't really anything like the dragging breaths that sounded so awful when Ray brought him home, or the wracking coughs of last night, but it's enough that Ray has to look up from his book every so often and listen closely, make sure Frank's okay.

The light casts odd shadows across Frank's face; his nose and his cheekbones stand out, but his eyes are shadowed. His eyelashes blend into the edge of the shadows and make them look even deeper. He snorts and burrows deeper into the blankets, and Ray's left looking at the curve of his ear, the sharp point of his shoulder.

Ray's not sure why he all but invited Frank to stay earlier. He doesn't like people, he likes having his space, he's sure to get tired of having Frank around sooner rather than later. But he can't help thinking about it anyway — Frank here, healthy, in the sunshine out front of the cabin; learning how to distract the evil chickens so he can steal the eggs; sitting across the small table. Leaning against Ray, the points and angles of their bodies curving to fit together in a new way.

Ray shakes himself out of his stupid daydreams and looks back at his book. Frank was kidding; he's still sick, but when he's better — well, he'd said he was hitchiking. He probably has places he wants to see, things to do. He never meant he had a real intention of staying out here in the middle of nowhere with no one but a misanthropical hermit for company.

Ray makes himself read three more pages of his book, concentrating fiercely on every word, and then he turns out the lights and goes to bed, wrapping himself up in the blanket to face resolutely away from Frank. He still spends way too long listening to Frank breathe.

  
Ray gets up in the morning well before Frank's showing any sign of stirring, before it's even properly light outside. He grabs a heel of bread for breakfast — though he can't stop himself from leaving the skillet and this morning's eggs out for Frank, so he can't miss them — and sets out to walk all the boundaries of his property, and his snare lines, or at least as far as he can go. There's no sign of anything wrong or out of place — Frank had said that the jerk who dumped him out was well away from Ray's place — but the exercise helps calm Ray's nerves, gives him something to focus on besides his own thoughts.

He's caught one rabbit, and he brings that back with him, arriving back at the cabin some time well after noon. He's ravenous, though he hadn't noticed while he was walking.

Frank's inside, scowling at the door. He scowls harder when Ray walks in.

"Oh good, you haven't gone and broken your neck without me even knowing."

"Of course not." Ray tips some lukewarm water into the washing bucket and scrubs at his hands, then tips it out. All the tension he'd managed to walk off is creeping back over his skin like a cloud.

"Cause that would really suck, what with me not actually knowing where I _am_ or anything."

"Look, I'm sorry—" Ray starts, but Frank ride right over him.

"And what with wondering how much you were lying about not minding me around, and not knowing where _you_ were, and not—" the rest of what Frank is trying to say gets lost in another fit of coughing — it sounds like he just got something caught in his throat, rather than the wet, sick sound from before, but it's keeping him from catching his breath. "Fuck," he wheezes out, doubled over.

Ray helps him sit up, his hands leaving wet marks. Frank glares at him.

"I'm still pissed at you," he rasps out.

"Okay."

"As long as we're clear." Frank drags in another couple of breaths, and slumps in Ray's hands, leaning sideways against his chest with one bony shoulder. Ray keeps his hands where they are — this seems to be okay, but he's not sure he wouldn't lose a finger if he stepped out of line right now.

"I was really worried about you," Frank says, after a few quiet minutes of him getting his breath back. "It's not like I could go looking for you right now, even if I knew where to start. You need walkie-talkies or something, so you can let someone know if you need help or you've accidentally tied yourself up or something."

"Accidentally — no, never mind," Ray says. "Look, I know what I'm doing, I'm fine."

" _So far._ " The fight goes out of Frank and he just shakes his head. "Nevermind, I know it's none of my business, really."

Ray's spent as much time holding Frank as he thinks he can allow himself without feeling guilty. He lets go and stands up, going back to the kitchen for something to do. "I guess I'm not used to anyone worrying about me."

"Yeah, well." Frank follows him over. "I kind of like you, even apart from the whole amazing saviour thing."

Ray sneaks a sideways glance at Frank. He looks a little wide-eyed and freaked out, and determined on top.

"Everyone loves my amazing saviour bit, it's very popular," Ray jokes, and Frank's mouth twists up with — disappointment? Ray puts down the knife he's fiddling with. "Wait, you like me like me?"

"Oh my god, we're in ninth grade." Frank drops his head back with a dramatic sigh. "Yeah, I _like_ you like you. It's not a big deal, okay? Please don't freak out and bury me in the back forty."

"Okay," Ray says on auto-pilot. "Wait, no! Not okay!"

Frank holds his hands up, his face twisting harder. "I'm not going to make it an issue, I'm really grateful for you letting me stay here, I'll leave as soon—mmph!"

Frank's small enough that Ray can box him in against the counter, but he's going to get a crick in his neck if he has to keep bending down this far. Instead he reaches down, gets a firm grip, and lifts Frank up to sit on the counter instead.

Frank leans back to glare and smack him on the shoulder. "No manhandling."

"No?" The glare gets harder. "Okay, sorry." The reality of what he just did hits Ray, and he steps back, letting go of Frank like he's red-hot. "Um. Sorry."

"Do _not_ fucking stop." Frank reaches out with one leg and hooks it behind Ray, pulling him back towards the counter. "No freaking out, either."

Ray holds his hands up, tries to make a barrier between them where he's not allowed space. "Look, Frank, this is a bad idea. You're going to be leaving, and I'm staying here, and it's just—"

"Stop right there." Frank holds up a hand to mirror Ray's. "One question. Do you want me to leave?"

"I know this is too isolated for anyone really normal, and you have a life you must want to get back to." Ray owns his weirdness, but he doesn't expect anyone else to subscribe.

Frank rolls his eyes. "Answer the damn question. Do you want me to leave? Simple question, yes or no."

"Not really," Ray admits.

"I'll count that as a no. You sucked at multiple-choice quizzes, didn't you?" Frank doesn't really wait for an answer, just barrels on. "I already told you I like you. I'd probably like you even if we'd met, I dunno, at a bar or over coffee or whatever, and you were an accountant, instead of you saving my life."

Ray hesitates. Frank waits him out.

"Do you want to leave?"

Frank smiles, but it's straight-up sweet, none of the mocking edge that Ray's braced for. "Fuck no. I told you you weren't going to get rid of me."

"But you must have other places you need to be."

Frank shrugs. "I told you I had that stupid plan to hitchhike across the country. There wasn't anything else I was doing, and I needed to be somewhere else, you know? I got laid off and I hadn't found another job, I can call my mom or write to her and let her know I'm okay — I don't have anywhere in particular I need to be."

Ray thinks about it. He had said he didn't mind having Frank around, yeah, but if he's talking about more than a week or two, which it sounds like he is, that's bigger. But even after thinking about it, yeah, he thinks that would be okay. They're gonna have to get some things straight, though.

"If you stayed, what would that—" he's not quite sure how he wants to finish the question, and goes with, "—mean?"

"Do we have to figure that out right now?" Ray waits, because yeah, he really kind of does. Frank sighs. "Okay. I think you're hot. You seem pretty awesome. I like you in the ninth-grade and other ways. I think it's worth trying something out, and in case you haven't noticed, your living situation doesn't really allow for fuck-and-runs." He drapes his arm up over Ray's shoulder. "So how about you?"

"That sounds okay." That doesn't really seem like enough. "I like having you around."

"Sounds like a good start." Frank drums his fingers on the back of Ray's shoulder. "So can we move on to the making out part?"

Ray has to laugh; Frank's too ridiculous not to. "You want to get off the counter?"

Frank shrugs. "I'm good. Get back here."

Really, the counter does put Frank at about the perfect height.

***

( _Outtake_

"Your last name is seriously _Toro_?"

"Yes?"

"No, I just want to make all sorts of bad jokes about bulls right now."

"Can I stop you?"

"No—oh. Uh, if you keep doing that. Oh, fuck you, stop laughing.")  



End file.
